Cooking with the Winchesters
by lucacat4
Summary: Sometimes, being a Winchester is really, really, really awful. It's bad enough getting your head punched in every few days and losing the people you love, saving the whole darn world and dealing with demons and hell and whatnot-and best of all, just when you think your life can't get any worse than it already is, the Trickster steps in and makes you realize, oh wait. It can.


Sometimes, being a Winchester is really, really, really awful. It's bad enough getting your head punched in every few days and losing the people you love, saving the whole darn world and dealing with demons and hell and whatnot-and best of all, just when you think your life can't get any worse than it already is, the Trickster steps in and makes you realize, _oh wait. It can get worse. Much worse, in fact_.

The air shimmers, suddenly, and when he blinks he finds himself sitting on a garden bench beside a large, roomy patio. There's a camera tripod at his left and a large camera case on his knees-definitely not the spell book he was just researching with Dean.

"Cas?" No trenchcoat, no angel, nothing. "Dean! Dean?" No answer, just a couple of awkward looks from the people sprinkled on the lawn. There are cameras and screens all over the place, and people milling around, talking and pointing and dragging lawn chairs. There's a huge metal grill on the patio, glaringly bright in the sun, and a large marble island parked in the center. Someone's obviously taken great cares to arrange the food on it for the best possible look-the carrots are almost painfully orange, feathery tops groomed and clean. A big bowl of spinach balances next to a cheeseboard, on which an array of cheeses are carefully laid out. The cooler next to the counter is open, gleaming with ice and stuffed with beer bottles, complementing the full-size pots and pans rack to the left. Sam stands up and scans the lawn, but he doesn't recognize anyone, doesn't recognize this place at all. His heart hammers in his chest and he slowly reaches up to feel his jacket, but all his weapons are gone. No dagger, no gun, he's totally-

"Hiya, Sammy boy! How d'you like my little set-up? Nice, isn't it?"

Sam feels his skin crawl at the voice. He knows who's fault this is.

"You," he growls, turning around to face the perky, brown-haired man smiling pleasantly at him. "Why'd you bring me here? Where's Dean?!"

The man shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, and unzips his army jacket. "He's around here somewhere, Sam, not to worry, not to worry. I got bored, y'see? Thought it was time we enjoyed a bit of fun."

"No." Sam bites the word, spits it off his tongue like it tastes bad. "I don't care about your stupid little whims, ok? Just put us back where we belong, Trickster."

"Sorry Sammy, no can do. I'll put you back, sure, but you gotta earn it first. Until then..see ya around, kiddo!" He snaps his fingers and disappears.

Sam curses under his breath. The next thing to do is find Dean. He's probably around here some…

"We need more of the purple cabbage and a couple of candles, ok? Gotta spruce this place up before the cameras start rolling, we're shooting in an hour. Let's do some concentric circles with the strawberries, halve them and arrange them on a nice platter surrounding the tossed salad, with a light wine on the side-pour the wine out into a couple of glasses but make sure you leave enough in the bottle, you know? The judges tonight are really tough, so we're going to have to do something really impressive, elegant but nothing too heavy, maybe some angel food cake with fresh cream and a blackberry sauce?"

Sam spins on his heel, calling out.

"Dean! There you are, man! Where've you be-?"

Oh god. Dean's...Dean's wearing a chef's hat, the iconic tall white kind, and he's got a black apron tied around his waist, with an argyle sweater complementing standard black dress pants. His amulet is gone, and in place of his ring, he's wearing a gold watch. Loafers, check, boots, no. It's more than a little unsettling to see Dean in loafers and wool-definitely not his best look, and something Dean would never be caught dead in.

"Dude, you should see yourself! What in hell are you _wearing_?!"

Dean throws him a puzzled look, then says something in a lone tone to the woman walking next to him. She scribbles on her clipboard for a moment, then leaves, calling over her shoulder, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Ackles!"

Sam approaches Dean, who, instead of complaining about the Trickster, steps back a few steps, a mixture of confusion and caution on his face.

"Dean, it's the Trickster again-he says we have to earn a pass outta here. I don't what this place is but it definitely isn't my kinda thing, looks like some kind of freakin' cooking show! God, this is weird."

Dean raises a hand protectively, as though warding Sam off. "I'm sorry, what? I don't know what you're talking about, I think maybe you're mistaking me for someone else." He smiles complacently and rather condescendingly, as though Sam is a misguided little child. "I'm Jensen Ackles, the head chef of _Cooking with Jensen_. We're not doing any more signatures, cookbook photos, or poses tonight, so how bout you just get on with your job, huh? The pictures from last night were a little grainy, I'd like you to redo the ones of the strawberry shortcake, the low-cal stir fry, and baked chicken and risotto, if you don't mind."

Sam's pulse is quickening, but he steps forward again, a laugh on his face. "Haha, very funny. Yep, you're Dean, I'm Sam, and this is the Trickster, and our weirdo lives just got a whole lot weirder. But seriously, Dean, we need to get outta here."

Dean backed away again, a look of disgust crossing his face. "Look, sir, I don't have the time for jokes right now, ok? Just let me get on with my job, I've got twelve quinoa patties to do before the cameras start rolling."

Sam can feel his fists tense and his pulse quicken. This isn't funny. He's himself, Dean is some chef with a girly name and food issues, and they're stuck. Everything's up to him, now.


End file.
